Dead children, halfgrown flesh with bullet-holes
marks of explosion, not just torn apart
but hit so hard by air it stopped their heart
a moment between breaths. Pray for their souls.
Godless, I pray. Language is far too weak
there is no other word for what we feel
except reject religion, and still steal
its words, its attitudes. They’re what we seek
ways of regret and hurt. So, always young,
always unfinished, taken from their lives.
There’s nothing new to say. This verse derives
does not create. It’s just the same old song
and what we need. While men shoot stab and kill
with other weapons, we will need it still.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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One Response to MOURN

  1. singinglark says:

    Yes, exactly.

    Thank you for saying what I was feeling for me. I suppose that’s one of the things poetry’s for, isn’t it?

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